In the fifth of a series of articles charting the experiences of a Wanstead-based travel writer, Carole Edrich recalls how terror turned to euphoria during a trip to Colombia
So long that I can barely see its end, the fourth of six ziplines stretches over the rich greens and browns of a huge tropical rainforest canopy. We’re on what they call a platform, but it’s more like a perilous topsail perch on an elderly pirate ship.
I’ve never been scared of heights. I can look up at trees, tall buildings, even skyscrapers. I didn’t bat an eyelid covering a Sears Tower stair race in Chicago or the views from Seattle’s Space Needle, and I loved the Eiffel Tower.
Chronic fatigue permitting, I can always get to whatever high place I’m going. Up is never a problem and there was a lot of ‘up’ to get here. A steady climb (or scramble or walk) through trees and bushes, then one of those twist-around-a-telegraph-pole style climbs to get to the platform.
What I am afraid of – I’ve just this minute realised – is down. We barely fit on the stand together and I am afraid that this whole precarious perch of a platform won’t take our weight. I am afraid the pole will topple. I’m afraid of being taken on an uncontrolled downward trajectory through the forest canopy all the way down to the rough rainforest terrain. I am afraid of getting torn by tree branches, of dropping such a long way down that I’d have time to run out of breath from the shock. I’m afraid of hitting the ground so hard that my bones would turn to jelly. I am afraid of down.
Having arrived with the suddenness of the shock of a plunge into ice-cold water, my terror is growing. To manage it, I try to chat. “What’s the maximum number of people you get on one of these platforms?”
“We used to let on six people. Then the pole fell down with the weight so now it’s only five.”
We are five; photographer, interpreter, driver, zipline guide and me. Down the pole on my own is not even an option. I didn’t even want to do this, but the lads in my team were desperate to do it and would only be permitted to do it if they were accompanying me.
I have no choice but to continue. I get on with the next zipline and it’s fine. Canopying in the truest sense, I need to hold my legs straight ahead to stop them brushing the treetops. I begin to love the feeling as it’s the best abs workout ever and my terror is replaced with clear-headed euphoria. Flying over the forest canopy, I can now wonder at the richness of the sights, sounds and smells of the nature below me, so close to the big Colombian city of Medellin.
That was 10 years ago. Some time between the fourth and final ziplines, I decided to zipline around the world for a book, which is a whole story of its own.
To read more of Carole’s work or to listen to her podcast, visit wnstd.com/edrich
